He promised eternal happiness; not the mother, to whom He now gave a home.

"Woman, behold thy son!" Words, doubtless, pointing to John; but words which, as the eyes of mother and Son now met, had a dreadful suggestiveness. He looked on His mother, and she on Him. She had looked on Him for years, and, younger or older, had ever beheld Him with the eye of love and hope; now she looked on Him as stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. Often their eyes had met, fondly, calmly met; but never had they met as they did now. The tortured woman looked into His uttermost misery, which she was impotent to assuage. Many mothers have gazed in bitterness on dying sons whom they could not relieve; but never did mother gaze on such a son, and such a death-scene, or son, from amidst such a strife, gaze on his mother. The earth has been dishonoured by many a horror; but never before dishonoured as now. Fitting it was that rocks should rend when human hearts had hardened as the adamant.

This was the shamefullest of all the shameful deaths of the cross; but as, even then, Christ did not forget Mary, so Mary did not feel ashamed, even then, to look on Him. And His eye told her of His great love; reminded her of all the past; assured her that still He was hers, and she His: the one human creature nearest His heart as nature fainted away. His people were all remembered too. Let it not be forgotten, however, that Mary was not only one of His people, but that one who had been called to take part in His incarnation. To her His earliest human thoughts had been turned, and she was the object of all but the last. This was the fond farewell of the most honoured of Eve's daughters, and the only

perfect one amongst men's sons. Again, indeed, she would behold Him, but henceforward as her Lord and her God. His earthly work was now done, perfectly done. Presently He said, "I thirst," and an unnamed bystander gave Him to drink. Then, as the evening sacrifice was being offered, as the heavy veil of the temple was rent by an unseen hand, as darkness crept fearfully on the troubled earth, gathering up the remnant of His spent strength, He cried with a loud voice, "It is finished! Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit; and He bowed His head, and gave up the ghost."

Whilst this closing scene of our Lord's earthly life may illustrate for us His filial love, in this, as in all besides, made like unto His brethren, we cannot but notice how entirely the whole narrative is incompatible with the mariolatry of Rome. On more than one occasion He repudiated her assumed authority over Him, and rebuked her for attempted interference with His work. As a son, "He was subject unto His parents;" but as the Messiah, His language was, "Woman, what have I to do with thee?" His full, true, perfect humanity, with all its sympathies and affections, is manifested even on the cross; but upon His Divine mission not even a mother is allowed to intrude. And it is significant that, beyond a single mention of her name as present with the disciples at Jerusalem, she disappears entirely from the inspired. narrative. With the death of " the Man of Sorrows" her special relationship with Him ceased. To Him, as "the Christ of God," "whosoever doeth the will of My Father which is in heaven, the same is My mother, and My sister, and My brother."

* Acts i. 14.

THE

CHAPTER III.

CHRIST'S SYMPATHY WITH CHILDREN.

HE world may be thankful that the young are so abundant in it. Surrounded by the graves of unnumbered generations, and witnessing the dying-out and burial of unnumbered joys, it is well that over the resting-places of the departed fresh tenants should wander for a time, beautiful and blithe. Had the world been full of only men and women, each feeling, as such now feel, respecting present cares and coming anxieties, with no childhood to look back upon, and no children, through fondling whom an early gentleness might have been recalled, what manner of world would it have been? A world, in whose dwellings, whether palaces or cottages, no infant smiled, on whose green commons no children shouted, in whose streets no schoolboys played, but all whose inhabitants showed the grave signs of experience and thoughtfulness; it would not have been our present sunny dwelling, but a place fit for the sordid and the selfish. We may be thankful that such is not our fate; that if we are often conscious of decays, and saddened by bereavement, we also thrill with joy in sympathy with that of children. The mere existence of youth among us is a good

we scarcely appreciate, for we never were, and cannot be, without it. If a world of one sex alone would be desolate, a world without a child would be a desert. Children play a great part in forming the characters of men and women, and thus directing, unconsciously, the daily current of events. Their sweet, fresh natures exercise a softening influence on older life. We toil to help them, and, with no toil at all, they repay us in daily good. Fathers and mothers bless God for the music children make in their dwellings, and the world at large may join in the thanksgiving.

In honourable old age there are many charms. We all revere Isaac Ashford. In such a man we see one who, by Divine help, has won the fight he could not shun, and is slowly descending to the rest he needs; a grand spectacle, which satisfies the thinker more than the triumphal shout of returning hosts. He has gained the past, and, by like grace, is assured of the future. He has conquered time; he has not less conquered eternity. There lies before him, as behind him, the thought of peace. Yet, there is a difference between the peace which lies behind him and the peace which he approaches. That which lies behind. him is a peace conquered amidst strife, and its aspect and memory tell him of sorrows no less than of joys. He is emerging from great tribulation, and this may not be forgotten. Hence, blessed as is the sight of holy age, whether we think of its past or of its future, there are inevitably connected with it sad thoughts as well as glad thoughts. But childhood need be linked to no darkness. There are times, doubtless, when one sighs over the possible future of the still innocent child. Such sighs are, however, neither fitting nor necessary. We can honestly look at the child as he

is to-day, and not think of him as he may be tomorrow. The fair ship going out of harbour on her long journey does not naturally suggest tempest and wreck. Even so we can think of the present happiness of the young without clouding the future by thoughts of calamities which, as yet, do not even cast their shadows before. And thus, looked at as they are, truly the young are happy. They have their trials, physical and mental, but life with them is sunny, and the easily-dried tear shines on the face which habitually carries a smile.

The good and the wise are ever interested in the young. That some special circumstances may increase or lessen our interest in them, is obvious enough; when, however, we have made all allowances for specialities, the fact remains that right-minded people ever draw towards them tenderly. The very beasts attach themselves gently to the young. If, then, all whom we think well of and have confidence in draw towards children with special affection, we would expect that our Master should feel as the best of our fellows feel; and we are not disappointed: Christ loved children.

His sympathy with parents is often manifest. We recall His mother's fond care for Him during His marvellous infancy, and we recall His fond care for His mother at the time of His still more marvellous death. When He rebuked the Pharisees for making God's law void by their tradition, He spoke with special severity of the fact that their casuistry had led them to defraud those for honouring whom there is a special promise, as well as a special precept. In a like mood He feels for the nobleman whose son He healed; for the ruler of the synagogue, whose little